Good Grief
by Aemilia
Summary: HouseWilson. A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. Utter and complete fluff.


"No, uh huh. No way, not happening," Wilson shook his head emphatically and brought his hands up to forestall House's request. House rolled his eyes, letting his entire head follow the roll; he was clearly unimpressed by Wilson's answer. "You are _not_ inviting yourself to Thanksgiving at my parents."

"Oh, come on, don't be such a bitch." House leaned against the door of Wilson's Volvo, watching as Wilson got out his keys. He'd followed Wilson from his office to the car. "Your parents _love_ me. They'd want me to come."

"Do you even remember what happened last year?" Wilson demanded, brows knit together in disbelief. "Come on, move, I can't open the door with you there."

House stayed where he was. "Sorta the point. I'll be good this year, promise." House drew a sketchy X across his heart

"And my brother and his wife are flying in this year, so it's going to be the whole family."

"I don't think I've met your brother's wife."

"No, and I'm really hoping to keep it that way. Your acquaintance has something of an adverse effect on people's opinion of me. "

"Aw, Jimmy, your words wound me." Wilson made a face that suggested he very much doubted that. "Pretty please. I'll play nice."

"You're not going to play at all, because you're not coming. My parents already think we're gay." Wilson pushed House's shoulder, trying to get him to move. House ignored him.

"That didn't stop you from taking me last year. Besides, not bringing me isn't going to change that- they'll just think we're gay and you're closeted. The evidence is mounting-" House ticked the points off on his fingers "-three failed marriages. You know what they say; three strikes and you're out. The French shoes, the love of classic movies, your obsession with looking pretty-"

Now it was Wilson's turn for the exaggerated eye-roll. "Blow drying my hair doesn't make me obsessed with looking pretty. And I can't I help my chiseled cheekbones." This time he put his shoulder into the shove, but House had already braced himself and continued on blithely, unfazed by Wilson's efforts.

"Yep. I'm afraid you've come down with a terrible case of the gay. You need a couple of Steelers games, stat!" The last bit was slightly strained, what with the force of Wilson's elbow in his diaphragm. "That would straighten you right out."

"A bunch of muscular men running around in tight pants, slapping each other on the ass? I'm afraid that would just exacerbate the condition," Wilson replied through gritted teeth, applying more force and wishing his loafers had better traction on the icy asphalt. 

"Good point." House held his ground against Wilson's onslaught, hooking the handle of his cane on the side mirror for leverage. "But rubbing up against me like this probably isn't helping, either." House wiggled just enough to make their tussle unbelievably lewd. Wilson nearly tripped in his haste to back up. House grinned, absolutely delighted with himself and the world.

"Fine," Wilson yielded, his mouth tightening in annoyance. He stood a moment, glaring at House and then started around for the other side of the car. House realized his intent and followed, but Wilson made it to the passenger's side first and with enough of a lead to get the door open. He scrambled into the car, reaching around for the door, but House had already caught it, crawling in and managing to sit on Wilson, who hadn't gotten over fast enough. He shut the door behind them both.

"Shove over, I'm a bit cramped," House ordered Wilson, who was struggling to do just that.

"Uuurk," Wilson grunted. "Emergency brake. Spleen. Ow."

"Oh, quit whining," House admonished, but shifted enough to allow Wilson to escape to the driver's seat.

Wilson took a deep breath and pulled at the cuffs of his jacket, regaining composure. "Get out, House." He put the keys in the ignition.

House put his foot up on the dash board, leaving a skid mark of grime and melting ice. "I'd say 'make me,' but you've already proven you can't best me in a physical contest, and I don't want to remind you of your failings as a man. That would be petty of me."

"Come on, I'm serious. I've got to go." Wilson tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

House crossed his arms. "I've got nowhere to be."

"Would Cuddy agree to that statement?"

"Of course," House quickly agreed. "…Just don't ask her."

"Uh huh." Wilson started the engine. "I'm going whether or not you're in the car."

"Okey dokey." House tapped his cane along the dashboard and waved at a couple of passing med students, who walked a little faster. "Boy, do I love car rides!"

"House!" Wilson snapped, having lost all patience. House reached over his shoulder pulled down his seatbelt, snapping it into the buckle. Wilson glared at him moment, then put the car into drive and pulled out of the PPTH lot. House fiddled with Wilson's iPod, apparently finding none of Wilson's musical selections to his taste. "You know what this is?" Wilson demanded a few blocks later. "You're Lucy."

House looked at him. "Beg pardon? Are we picking our drag names? 'Cuz I'm really leaning toward Kitty Sparkle."

"I'm Charlie Brown, this dinner is the football and you're Lucy," Wilson elaborated. "Despite the fact that on every occasion in the past you've yanked the football away, you're still going to try and talk me into it. Convince me that this time it'll be different. And in the end I always believe you. And I _always_ end up flat on my back wondering what the hell happened."

"Heh." 

"Shut up," Wilson grimaced. "Can't you resist an innuendo once in your life?"

"Of course not. Besides, maybe I like you flat on your back." House toyed with the automatic lock button on the armrest.

"So why should I try and kick this football, House?" Wilson twisted to check his blind spot and merged.

"The why doesn't really matter," House answered reasonably. "You said yourself that you always end up agreeing. No matter how long you argue and drag your heels, the conclusion is foregone. Everyone knows from the moment Lucy asks that Charlie Brown is going to try and kick that football. It's already decided and 'why' doesn't ever enter into it. It's the 'how' you should be asking- how long you can put off the inevitable. Which, of course, I am."

Wilson glanced away from the road to give House a wry sidelong glance. "Not unlike death and taxes. No wonder I can't resist."

"Then can I come?"

Wilson was silent a long moment. Finally, he drew a deep breath. "Yes," he sighed, more than a touch melodramatically.

"Hey, where are we going?" House asked suddenly realizing they were not on the way to Wilson's apartment.

"I've got a date…" Wilson began slowly.

"This'll be fun."

"…With my tailor."

"Aw…"

"To find you a something suitable to wear to my parents.'"

"…Damn." House considered a moment. "You _planned_ this. You knew that you were going to give in."

"Well, yeah," Wilson smirked. "You're inevitable."

"You're a sneaky son of a bitch."

"I try to be. Have to make up my inability to best you in a physical contest somehow." Wilson was grinning in earnest now. "So no band t-shirts. And you're bringing a side-dish."


End file.
